


No One Special

by secretsalex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Everybody Wants to Bang Harry, Fabulously Over the Top Draco, Friend Fiction, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 13:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13078281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretsalex/pseuds/secretsalex
Summary: In which Draco is extra fabulous, Millicent is relatable, and they bond over shared romantic pursuits.  And waffles.





	No One Special

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [hp-emofest](http://hp-emofest.livejournal.com/59068.html) back in 2011. The prompt was "Millicent Bulstrode—the loneliness of being a half-blood in Slytherin." I fell in love with it immediately, and this is one of my favorite fics I've written, honestly.

Draco pushes his hair back with an effeminate hand and frowns. “And you’re sure you’re not a dyke?” 

“Absolutely sure,” Millicent replies, unruffled. 

“Pity. It would make this so much easier.” Draco looks at her across the booth and raises one manicured eyebrow, taking in her sloppy bun, her loose white button down, remembering the faded corduroys and trainers that complete the outfit. “You can’t even try pussy—not just once? Maybe you’ll like it, Mills.”

“The only vag I’m interested in is my own, Draco.”

Draco grins. “Ah, I know the feeling, darling. Okay, then. Getting you laid. With cock. Preferably a big one.”

“Yes, preferably.”

“Of course.” Draco takes a peek up at Millicent and purses his lips. “You’re not a virgin, are you? Because in that case we should stay away from big cocks”—

“I’m not a virgin. Good lord, Draco, we’re thirty!” 

“For Merlin’s sake, woman, shut up! We’re keeping that number under our hats, thank-you-very-much.”

Millicent smirks, wide lips twisting up at one corner. “Twinks have a hard time with aging, don’t they?”

“I don’t age! I get better with time, you slag.” 

“Indeed. And what a lot of time it’s been.”

“Do you want my help, Mills? Because I will get up and leave you right this moment, and you’ll end up at that party in something hideous and be surrounded by cunt-licking lesbians desperate to shag your butchy arse.”

Millicent gives a theatrical shudder. “Perish the thought. Stay, stay, Draco—you barely look a day over seventeen. My goodness, where are your Hogwarts robes, you pretty young thing.”

Mollified, Draco smiles. “That’s better. Now—so you’ve had sex, then. With who? Do tell. Spill it, Mills.”

“Draco, again I must reiterate that _I am thirty_. I’ve been having sex for ages. I can’t give you a blow-by-blow from Hogwarts on.”

“You were shagging at Hogwarts?” Draco looks genuinely surprised now, eyeballing her over the table. 

“Well, yes, I”—

Millicent is interrupted when the waitress arrives, earning a baleful stare from Draco for having intruded on the gossip. 

“Are you ready to order, loves?” The waitress is Muggle, in her forties, and clearly finds Draco’s angry-gay-kitten routine underwhelming. 

“Yes, thank you,” Millicent says, flashing the woman an apologetic smile. “I’ll have the fish and chips, please, and a glass of water is fine.”

The waitress turns to Draco. “And for you, young man?”

Draco warms slightly at the epithet. “Coffee, black, and a side salad. No croutons, no cheese, dressing on the side.”

The waitress disappears, and Millicent raises her eyebrows. “Coffee and lettuce?”

“Sod off, I think it comes with tomatoes, too. I’m fucking starving, but the trousers I bought for the party tonight are a size too small. Needs must. I haven’t eaten anything but bloody spinach for a week, I swear.”

Millicent appraises Draco’s tiny frame with some skepticism. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.”

“You will be when you see the trousers. Trust me. They’re divine. Now—your sex life at Hogwarts. How did I not know you had one?”

Millicent smiles, and it isn’t bitter, even though it could be. “Why would you have known? What did you know about me at all, then?”

Draco considers. “Not much, I suppose—we weren’t very close.”

“No, we weren’t,” she agrees. 

“Funny, were you chummy with Parkinson? You must have been, but I don’t really remember you with her all that much.”

“Not especially. You know Pansy and I—we’re like night and day. Same for Daphne.” Millicent looks down at her hands, shredding her paper napkin into strips. _I’m a half-blood, remember, you insufferable prat_ , her inner sixteen-year-old self shrieks. 

“Yes, and there weren’t many other girls to choose from, were there?” Draco looks thoughtful now, dropping some of his ever-present camp. 

“No, there weren’t. Girls aren’t Sorted into Slytherin nearly as often as boys—that old saw about ambition not being ladylike, I’m sure.” Millicent sighs, murmuring a thank you to the waitress as she drops off their drinks. 

“You think the Sorting Hat uses stereotypes to Sort students? It’s a bloody Hat, Mills.”

“Not the Hat—the whole world. By the time a witch is at Hogwarts she’s had eleven years to cultivate her personality, and the world has told her since birth that ambition is a male right.”

“Explain Parkinson, then. Or hell, my own mum. Or Greengrass!”

“That’s a very specific kind of ambition, is it not?” Millicent laughs. “Tell me the difference between those women and me.”

Draco shifts. “Well”—

“Besides blood status, you old world snob,” Millicent interrupts, rolling her eyes at Draco’s discomfort. “Their ambition was to sit at the right hand of a powerful wizard. Bear his heirs, pull his strings, use their feminine wiles to enact dubious machinations behind the scenes of high society. I’m no Narcissa Malfoy, Draco. Couldn’t be if I tried. I don’t ever want to marry at all. Truly.”

Draco frowns a little. “Was it . . . lonely for you? At Hogwarts?”

“Of course,” she snaps, looking at him as if he’s daft. “Adolescence is always lonely. And I was stuck alone, as an awkward little half-blood girl who didn’t dreaming of ruling behind her husband’s throne someday. If—if I’d been a boy, I might have been better off.”

“If you’d have been a boy, you would have been with Crabbe and Goyle and me,” he says, realization dawning. 

“Yes, I’d imagine so. I wouldn’t have taken orders as well as they did, but I think we would have got on well enough.” Millicent smiles again. “But I’m not a boy, am I?”

“No, apparently not even a lesbian, you breeder.”

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

Millicent takes a deep breath, steeling herself to walk out of the dressing room and endure Draco’s inspection of yet another outfit. So far, he has been unimpressed with her choices and hasn’t hesitated to tell her so. His response to the last outfit she’d tried (a rather lovely pantsuit) was to waggle his tongue obscenely between the vee of his fingers while gagging, a pantomime she can only assume indicates that he noted a rather butchy quality to the ensemble. 

To passify him, she’d agreed to try on one of _his_ choices, but now she’s not sure she’s brave enough to walk out of the room in the thing. It’s black, it’s short, and it’s . . . clingy. 

She pulls the curtain open and charges out. “I think I’ll just wear robes,” she says, before Draco can respond. 

“You are not wearing robes. No one will be wearing robes. Robes are boring. It’s a birthday party—for the Boy Who Bloody Lived, no less. No robes.” Draco stands up, marching over and pulling Millicent’s crossed arms away from her chest and stalking around her, muttering to himself. “But this, Mills—this could work.”

“Draco! It’s—it’s not for me. It’s all tight and wrong, I can’t.”

Draco grabs her arm and spins her toward the three-way mirror. “Look at yourself, Mills.”

Millicent looks. The image in the mirror is that of a plump, plain woman and a devastatingly beautiful man, and she looks away.

“No, _look_ ,” Draco insists, pushing her forward a bit. He reaches up and snags the clasp from her hair, letting it down to wave around her shoulders. “What do you think?”

She looks again. The dress is black, and covered with some sort of tiny sparkles that only show when she turns quickly. It’s sleeveless, a simple sheath dress with a low-but-not-too-low vee neckline that shows off some cleavage without giving her any cause for alarm that her tits might suddenly make an appearance. It skims her waist, flares at her hips, and stops well short of her chubby knees. 

“I’m not the kind of woman who can wear dresses like this. This is a Pansy dress.”

“Pansy hasn’t been that covered up since we were at Hogwarts,” Draco scoffs. “It’s not a Pansy dress. It’s a classy dress. A Millicent dress.”

Millicent looks up, still taken aback by Draco’s kindness even though they’ve been friends for a few years now. He’s still the boy she knew from school in many ways, but adulthood has softened him, too. No war looming, no closeted sexuality driving him to cruelty—he’s a better version of his younger self, his pointiest edges blunted a bit, and it’s always a pleasant surprise when he illustrates that point. 

“My arms are out,” Millicent moans, giving her upper arms a dubious pinch.

“Oh, so what? And don’t you dare try to cover this dress up with some hideous shawl. I will not allow it.” Draco’s hands are on his hips. 

“Fine, I’ll buy the dress,” Millicent agrees wearily. 

“And shoes?” Draco prompts. 

“Fine, fine. But if I don’t get laid tonight, you’re paying me back for all this.”

“Deal. Who’s the bloke you’re after, anyway? And don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t tell me who you fucked at school. We’ll be returning to that at some point. But who’s the bloke tonight?”

_Harry Potter_. Millicent sighs, waiting until she’s back in the dressing room to call out her answer over the curtain. “No one special. Just looking.” 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@

It’s after midnight when Millicent sees Harry up close. She’s seen him all night, of course—little glimpses through the crowd, a few furtive stares as he goes to the bar, blatant ogling when he shuffles up to the little makeshift corner stage and says a few words of gratitude after Ron (and Seamus and Dean and George) toast his health. 

Now, though, it’s that strange hour when a party begins to transition. Those that are in for the long haul settle in, order another round, and get down to the business at hand with a purpose. The less dedicated among the crowd are gathering their things, saying their goodbyes, ready for a quick Apparation into a cozy bed. As the crowd mills, Millicent makes her escape, ducking out of the Three Broomsticks and into the alley behind it.

She pulls out a crumpled pack of Muggle fags and lights one with her wand, sucking the smoke in harsh and deep. It’s been a strange night. People she hasn’t seen for a while actually failed to recognise her, so profound is Draco’s makeover. 

Millicent sighs. If this were a Muggle movie, Harry would come walking around the corner at any moment, and their eyes would meet, and then it would happen, they would kiss, and Harry would Apparate them straight to his bedroom. 

But it’s not a Muggle movie, and so Millie trudges back into the bar, cursing Draco with every punishing step, and reclaims a seat at the bar. 

@@@@@@@@@@@@

When Harry Potter slips onto the barstool next to hers, Millicent can’t quite hide her surprise. At a party thrown in his honor, Harry should be surrounded by guests—most of them former Gryffindors, however much he might prattle on in the Prophet about unity. But he isn’t. He’s just there, sitting next to her, waving some Galleons and trying to get the attention of one of Madam Rosmerta’s barkeeps. 

“It seems like a bloke should be able to get served at his own party,” Millie says, letting the amusement show on her face. 

Harry turns, recognizing her. “Uh—hi, Millicent! Er—yes, I’ve never been any good at this—getting the barkeep’s attention. I think it might help to have tits.” He gestures down the bar, where a very bosomy Lavender Brown is being handed drinks. 

Millicent wrinkles her nose. “Not just tits in general. They have to be attached to a girl like Brown.”

Harry makes a face right back at her. “Ugh—Lavender can keep her tits, along with the rest of her.” He looked down at Millicent a moment, then smiles. “Maybe you should try getting the drinks? If you can get that bloke’s attention I’ll buy you one, too.” He pushes the Galleons toward her, but at that moment the barkeep finally appears before them—to Millicent’s great relief.

“Great service there, mate,” Harry mutters. The barkeep gives a bored smile. “Right, then—umm, two Firewhiskeys, please.” 

He turns to Millicent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask what you drink. Probably not that, huh?”

“No, it’s fine, really.” It is the truth. Millicent abhors the fruity cocktails women are supposed to like. “I usually do take it with some mint leaves and a spot of sugar, though.”

“Weird. But I’ll remember that in the future.” Harry grins at her, looking calm and happy and not at all awkward. 

Millicent can feel her palms start to sweat. Sweet mother of Merlin, Harry Potter is—is _flirting_ with her. 

Or he isn’t at all, and Millicent is just reading him wrong. 

Yes, that has to be it. 

“The lady would like two sugars and some fresh mint,” Harry speaks up, interrupting Millicent’s mental dueling match. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to”—she turns to the bartender. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

But he will.” Harry’s voice is even and confident—and nothing like the boy Millicent remembers from Hogwarts. When the mint and sugar arrives and Harry insists on trying her drink, Millicent can’t resist putting her own mouth against the spot where Harry’s had been on the rim. 

@@@@@@@

When Draco suddenly sidles up to the bar and squeezes between her and Harry, Millicent can’t help but bestow a fond smile on him. Maybe the dress he picked out is working, after all. 

“Mills!” Draco cries, dropping a kiss on her cheek in that faux-French, authentic-queer way he cultivates. He leans over the bar and waves his empty glass at the bartender, managing to look charming instead of demanding. The farther he leans, the more his tightly-clad bum is hovering near Harry’s lap. Millicent chuckles, figuring that Draco’s doing it purposely, playing a little game he calls “Scare the Straight Guy.” But when she looks up at Harry, he doesn’t look scared. At all. He looks . . .alert. 

When Draco catches the bartender’s attention, he happily orders a round for the three of them. “For you, Mills, because you are _wearing_ that dress, darling, and for you, birthday boy, just because.” He gives Harry a big grin over the rim of his brandy glass and Millicent can barely believe her eyes when Harry grins back, slow and suggestive. 

Draco lounges against the bar, inching more and more into Harry’s personal space. To Millicent’s horror, Harry doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he’s casting surreptitious glances down the length of Draco’s trousers, the ones that Draco’s starved himself in order to wear. That hard work must have paid off, Millicent guesses. 

“So where’s the Little Miss Weasley tonight?” Draco asks, flashing blatant fuck-me eyes at Harry.

“We’re off-again, at the moment,” Harry says vaguely, tossing back his Firewhiskey in a sudden motion. Millicent and Draco both watch his Adam’s apple bob.

“Ah. Well, until you’re on-again with her, you should get off-again with me,” Draco purrs, looking shameless and wanton and more confident than Millicent can ever imagine feeling. 

Harry’s eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe, and for a moment Millicent thinks Draco’s gone too far, expected too much, and Harry will recoil. She’s wrong, though, and Harry finds his own confidence, plucking Draco’s half-full glass from his hands and setting it aside on the bar. “Follow me,” he says, and he whirls toward the door without waiting to see if Draco will follow.

He does, throwing a wink at Millicent on his way out and mouthing the words, “It’s the trousers!” at her as he goes. 

@@@@@@@@@@@

The owl Millicent receives from Draco the next morning is brief but explicit:

_Mills,_

_I can eat again! We must get brunch. 11:00 at A Broken Egg. Be there—I don’t care if you were up all night shagging. It’s no excuse._

_Draco_

When she gets to the restaurant, Millicent almost turns around and walks away before she goes through the door. She’s not sure she can face Draco, not sure she can hear him recount, in lurid detail, his evening with the Boy Who Lived to Be a Little Bi-Curious. But then again, she’s not sure she can go back home _without_ hearing the details, either. 

So she goes in. 

Draco is sitting in a corner booth, ordering a laundry list of items from a harried-looking waitress and gesticulating wildly. Millicent isn’t close enough to hear him, but she suspects he’s giving explicit instructions about the way he wants his omelette cooked. Draco’s never really understood the difference between Muggle servers and house elves. Or he’s never really _wanted_ to understand. 

“Bulstrode, finally!” Draco says as soon as he finishes ordering. “I already ordered for you—hope you don’t mind. I got us pretty much everything. I’m back on real food again.” 

“The pants were a success, I take it?” 

“Oh, smashing,” Draco agrees. “And now they’re back in the closet until I need them again, and I’m eating bacon. _Bacon_ , Millicent.” 

Millicent raises an eyebrow. She’s used to Draco’s crash diets, ‘cleanses,’ and other weird narcissisms, but bacon is rarely on the menu no matter what. In fact, the last time she saw him eat pork products was after a particularly nasty breakup with some distant French cousin who managed to be even snobbier than Draco—a drama that Millicent had afterward referred to as When Draco Was Out-Malfoyed. “Bacon?”

“Yes, and waffles. And omelettes.” Draco pours her a cup of tea and stirs in sugar and milk for her before handing it over. It’s a little high-handed of him, Millicent always thinks, to fix her tea, but he does get it perfect, so who is she to complain?

“So you had a good time last night?” Millicent can’t bear to ask, but the subject is like a loose tooth—she just can’t bear not to prod it. 

“Seducing the supposedly straight Boy Who Lived? Of course, darling.” Draco waggles his eyebrows suggestively. He opens his mouth to continue, but something stops him, and he takes a drink of his tea instead. 

When he sets the cup down, he looks a little less campy, a little more real. “If you can call a good time blowing a straight guy in an alley, then yes, it was lovely.”

“The alley?”

“That’s right—Potter wasn’t even gentleman enough to take me back to his place.” Draco shrugs, tossing his artfully disheveled hair behind his ear and affecting nonchalance. “Prat. His cock is enormous, of course.”

Millicent laughs, and it sounds bitter even to her own ears. “Figures, doesn’t it?”

Their food comes, and they share greasy diner fare in companionable silence for a few minutes. Millicent decorates her waffles with syrup and butter, and Draco inhales first his own bacon and then half of Millicent’s. 

“It was a waste of the trousers, huh?” Millicent finally asks.

Draco forks his omelette with near-violence. “All fashion is wasted on straight men. I might as well have worn sweatpants.” 

Millicent can hear the hurt under Draco’s bravado. She wonders if he’s aware of it. 

Draco swallows a huge bite of waffle and then wipes his mouth daintily. “What about you, Mills? You looked stunning last night. Who’d you take home? Oh, is he still there? Should I have told you to bring him?” 

Millicent rolls her eyes. “No, Draco. You said it yourself. Fashion is wasted on straight men.” The irony is bitter, and she chases it away with another bite of her waffles. 

Draco eyes her over his plate. “You really did look great, Mills. Men are just stupid.” He sighs, pushing food around his plate. “Hey, you might have gone home alone, but at least you didn’t delude yourself into thinking you were going to fuck Harry Potter—so your night was better than mine.”

Millicent swallows hard. “Yeah,” she finally mumbles. “You looked really good, too, Draco.” 

“I know. Now eat your bacon.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [secretsalex](http://secretsalex.tumblr.com) on tumblr, and comments are super appreciated.


End file.
